He hid his eyes beneath a brim
but not so much he could not see
the way one lip just touched the other,
how they glistened with liquor;
how she inclined her head.
He imagined she might figure
in a dream in which he was what he was not:
sure and positive, the man who looked up
and women saw in his eyes that he was love
and passion; that he might approach with a suggestion
for an assignation: a man of assurance.
That would be the way; he saw himself
in snappy trousers and two-tones,
cigarette on an elegant petulant lip,
bright braces up a bursting chest.
Too many films, probably;
too many half-light dreams.